


May the ink never dry

by Julle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, M/M, Negative Thoughts, Post-SPECTRE, a first time for everything, bad memories, pre-christmas, slight 00Q, strange kind of loveletters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julle/pseuds/Julle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q receives a mysterious, blank envelope containing a single piece of paper. The signature reads as a strange variant of the letter J, as in … James Bond. He does not know what to do except panicking about being assassinated, or feeling excited about further being mentally threatened by strange letters.</p><p>A James Bond/Q christmas fanfiction as a daily advent calendar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a daily advent calendar, so you may expect a chapter every evening from December 1 to December 24, December 25 being a special. (Maybe I’ll make a podfic out of it if it's finished. Don’t pin me down on this, though.)
> 
> I am not a native speaker of English (which is my L3), so I would really appreciate if you could point out any mistakes that I made, especially grammatical times used in the wrong way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any advice by Bond was not to be taken lightly.

**December 1**

It had been some days since Q had seen Bond for the last time. Nothing too strange, but again it was that time of the year, namely the pre-Christmas season. This alone was already giving him too much time to wrap his mind around various hypothetical issues, fascinating and terrifying at the same time.

At the end of the day he probably would have forgotten about these thoughts if there were not something strange in his mail …  
The blank paper in his right hand was rough and thin at the same time, not weighing much more than a feather on his fingertips. No stamp was to be found, not a single evidence of where or when it had been sent. He was not even sure if this nameless envelope has been posted, it seemed far more likely that it was deposited right in his mailbox by its author.

Q slid open the loose flap that had been tucked under the overlapping paper. Still looking for any evidence that could tell him who wanted to get in contact with Q that privately, he unfolded the letter. At the first glance he only perceived a neat handwriting. Q did not read through it first but it took him some time to identify the signature at the end of these few lines as a J.

As single J, to be precise. Much like a J as in … James.  
It dawned on him. This was not an unwanted postcard from his most favourite – he emphasised the ‘favourite’ by forming the word with his lips – agent of the MI6. It was rather a genuine letter, written with one of the better fountain pens, the ink drawn in a precise manner. As if the signature was a mistake, a flaw compared to the lines above.  
He had yet not even read it but he could not help falling for the picture created by these fine rows of ultramarine blue ink.

‘I never imagined the sky glowing with such a deep tone of red. Darker than fire, much more like blood.  
Can you imagine that I have not thought about England a single time since I arrived here? Neither do I.  
No mountains, no snow, only warm rain and bright sunshine. I didn’t ask yet you how your flight to Austria has been - nevermind.  
Oh, and I still carry my … your gun with me. Why smudging a complex technical machine with blood when hands are easier to wipe clean, right? Although everything can happen just five minutes from now. Don’t pin me down on this, Q.

Take care,  
J’

Q was baffled. Startled, to be precise. He blinked a few times. Many times. He did not wonder how Bond got his address, how he delivered this letter. No agent had ever sent him a personal letter. He did not know what to do – or how to take care. Any advice by Bond was not to be taken lightly.


	2. December 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did Bond try to be funny?

**December 2**

The day seemed to never end, at least to Q. Literally everyone in the Q-branch needed advice, a few easy moves or even worse, assistance because their colleague got on holiday. It surprised him how much he let himself to be bothered by these minor issues, yet he couldn’t help but doing his work. At least he tried to fulfil his job description, however, Bond knew far too well to not let him do so. Q sighed silently, scrolling down an enormous list of commands. Somewhere deep down there was a syntax and he knew how to handle it, but his vision blurred frequently, forcing him to set down the glasses. He rubbed his eyes once again without withdrawing his attention from the most current case.

The train on the rails had his doors wide open as he walked down the stairway. Upon deciding what to do, he subconsciously broke into a sprint and got there faster than expected. By overtaking various possible passengers, he made it to the wagon seconds before the doors closed. After that move time passed so fast that he ‘woke up’ only a hundred meters away from his flat. The copper-coloured key forced the door open, welcoming him in an interchangeable hallway equipped with two elevators. One of them was already waiting for him.

He made sure to check his mailbox downstairs at the entrance of the cellar, yet the doormat inside his flat proved to be more effective, offering a blank envelope. Q closed the door shut behind his back before picking up the letter. He already knew who was writing to him, which was quite obvious given the first letter. Still, Q felt quite uncomfortable by laughing out loud while reading the newest old headlines from his most favourite special agent of the entire MI6.

‘The last letter was horrible, wasn’t it? Please do me a favour and destroy it, use it to pre-heat your stove or whatever else makes that paper disappear.  
Assuming you haven’t heard anything of me since my departure, I could easily be dead at that point. Upon reading you know that I am not, however, soon will be if this damn stewardess keeps mocking me.’

The letter ended without any further comment, leaving Q clueless. Did Bond try to be funny? Well, he got his quartermaster laughing – and mentally noting that no, he would not destroy any of these letters -, but for what apparent reason?

The back of the paper revealed nothing except bleached interwoven cellulose fibers. It took him some time to realise that a business card underneath the loose paper contained the missing information:  
‘I will be home tomorrow, obligatory brief visit at M’s office. No obligations in the evening. I have got something for you, could be interesting. 1900 at my flat.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the hits and kudos so far, really appreciate the interest!


	3. December 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Bond is apparently too lazy to write letters in longhand.

**December 3**

The day already started bad, him being most likely late for work - for the first time in many months. Q hurried down the hallway only to find the elevator not waiting for him. Within fractions of a second he calculated that it would be way faster to run down the fleet of stairs. So he kept running, passing five floors and the entrance of the building. Once out into a hazy London, Q lowered his pace and just walked quickly. It took him less than five minutes to get to the underground station, right in time for the next train.

He calmed down even more when the secret entrance of the MI6 was within sight, steadying his breath by counting to ten before exhaling. Upon entering Q-branch, nobody seemed to have missed him. The quartermaster was not sure if he should be relieved or piqued. In the end he found himself indifferent and unsurprisingly he also had to care about more important stuff. Navigating another one of MI6’ special agents through some major city in a developing country was not his favourite part of the job nor an adequate pastime. Still he was glad that it drew his attention away from private issues with Bond that he seem to have.

Ignoring the entire existence of 007 worked out surprisingly well because Q ended up literally having no time to even consider thinking about it. Time passed and passed, and only at a quarter to seven he really understood what the clock was telling him all day long: No matter what, you rather be at Bond’s flat at seven, or you don’t know if there will be a tomorrow. He glanced at the binary clock on his laptop with a rapidly changing number of red dots. Shit.

Q was grateful to know where the flat of his favourite agent was located and how to get there. That fact saved him some precious time while entering the right train. For minutes he could not do much more that avoiding the prying eyes of some passengers around him. Intending to read the various advertisements and guidelines for safety posted on the windows, Q realised that his eyes prevented him from doing so blurring his vision. Tears almost welled up but neither blinking nor rubbing the eyeballs through closed eyelids did help. His eyes remained useless on short distance, making him unable to read any information on his phone properly. With one eye closed, he bypassed that problem, and instantly noticed the latest unread message:

‘You’re late.  
J’


	4. December 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Strange', he answered silently.

**December 4**

He let the phone slide into the pocket of his coat and broke into a sprint. Q did not even think about the surveillance enforced by various cameras along the pavement that he would have to manipulate, all he thought about was Bond. The door swung open easily, the hallway in front of him leading right to the stairs. Climbing two stone slabs at once he managed to reach the door of the apartment a mere five minutes after seven o’clock. Q knocked on the door. Once, twice. Another time. Secret agent 007 did not seem interested in opening the door for him, thus he had to do so himself - which was not too difficult since it was not locked at all …

James Bond was seated in an armchair, the Walther handily placed on the coffee table with the barrel facing the astonished quartermaster.  
“Double-o-seven?”, he muttered.  
“Close the door and take a seat.”  
The agent seemed to be neither annoyed nor commanding, speaking loud and clear. Q did as he was told. Cushions on the sofa moved slightly as he sat, ready to face these clear blue eyes. To his surprise Bond only glanced at the weapon before turning it around so that the barrel now faced the agent instead. Something in the movement of the gut was odd, as if the wrong pole of a magnet was pointed at the older man.

“It’s unloaded, as far as I can tell.” The frown on Bond’s face grew with every word.  
Q reached out for the handle, weighing the gun with one hand, then with the other.  
‘Strange’, he answered silently while trailing his fingers over every seam of the metallic surface. He wanted to take a closer look but stopped when he realised that his eyesight was not providing him any secure information. Even narrowing his eyelids and squinting below the frame of his glasses proved to be useless. 007’s glaring stare denied him any excuses so he blandly announce the truth:  
“I’m sorry to tell you, Bond, that I am currently of no help for you. Until my eyesight won’t be blurry anymore, I cannot analyse this weapon.”

Bond seemed to take a closer look at his eyes before leaning back once again.  
“How?”  
“Probably due to the workload today, I constantly had to switch between near and far sight.”  
It sounded like such a lame and horrible excuse to Q that he would have rather not said anything, although Bond already seemed to have acknowledged the facts.  
“This is not official, so you have no obligation to conduct any research on this. If you would still be so nice to do that, I would really appreciate that. For more information, consider reading my letter before lighting it up.”  
The agent smirked at the last four words.


	5. December 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond stays cryptic as always.

**December 5**

Remembering how he had come home was one thing that he was sure he could, at least after some time. Sleeping for almost twenty-four hours, however, was something Q didn’t even knew his body was capable of doing so. He imagined himself staying up late in the desperate wish to regain his vision on near sight. Nothing seemed to help so in the end he gave in and went into the bathroom, not even bothering to inspect himself in the mirror. Warm shower, toothbrush and paste, bare feet on cold tiles, a slightly less cold bed.

Q shot a look at the alarm clock on the nightstand. 6:57am on Saturday 5th, he read, his mind absent. What … how … did Bond drug him? This question shocked him more than he wanted to admit, revealing an ongoing trust issue that encumbered his relationship with the agent. Double-o-seven did know more about him than he wanted to believe, but he couldn’t deny the truth. Bond had his eyes on him, whether he gained the information himself or used the knowledge of various other people.

It was his second free day, and definitely the last one for the next few days. Q was still pretty annoyed that he had overslept a whole day that he could have effectively spent doing nothing. Just as he did at the moment, a mug of strong Earl Grey cupped with his hands. He glanced through the thin curtain over the foggy roofs of the, notoriously, oh so beautiful London. Somewhere a few blocks away from his sight the Thames carried down. He felt it deep inside, the faint idea of missing that how the river looked in his hometown. Upstream, where the Thames was far smaller but probably even more imposing.

He sat down and started to nervously fidget on the couch. No book seemed interesting enough to read it a second or third time … what did Bond tell him about letters? The quartermaster wandered down the hall towards the entrance where he instantly discovered two blank envelopes. The smaller one was right on his footmat, the other covering it up partly. Both of them seemed to be of brand new paper, although he knew Bond far too well to instantly dismiss the idea of a secret agent wasting is money on envelopes. Still no postmark. Q glanced at the camera that he had installed in the darkest corner of the ceiling … he could at least trace back when the letters were delivered. On the way back he already forgot doing so, far too focused on the folded letter.

‘I know you’ll meet me, and that you won’t come home to read this letter first. Whatever I asked or not asked you to do, please be careful. I don’t know why it won’t … work with me, or how it even knows that. On the backside I attached a microchip that I found alongside.  
I wish I could stay here for the results, but I have to keep moving.  
J’

Q was genuinely surprised to read that Bond actually wanted to know something about the technology he got into contact with every day. The quartermaster knew that Bond was neither unintelligent nor uneducated, but the older man never seemed interested in any of these topics at all. He could have tried to explain why shooting at an empty water tank would cause only two bullet holes and one full of water leads to an explosion of thousands of glass shards, but then again it was useless as long as agent 007 stayed obstinate.

‘You still think that I drugged you, don’t you? I can’t ask you to stop it, although I would appreciate if you gained more trust in me. Not knowing what you did when you came home, I cannot guess how much your body needed relaxation, so Eve – and Tanner, to my surprise – covered it.  
Don’t thank me for that.’

Bond stayed cryptic as always. Great.


	6. December 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not a riddle.

**December 6**

The letter that Q had not seen in his mail or on the doormat miraculously appeared overnight. This time it was a plain piece of unbleached paper, not bigger than the size of an average pocket book. He did not remember Bond even possessing on of these – or liking them at all. The secret agent was still full of mysteries, constantly talking in riddles and tarnishing his impression of the reality.

‘I’m in a hurry, talk to you later.  
J’

This was not a riddle. The whole ‘letter’ was a sole waste of time. In addition, he hardly comprehended why Bond would use a Parker Jotter to write to his dear beloved quartermaster. Chances were he had written that message while visiting Felix Leiter.  
‘Yeah, probably’, he answered himself.

Q was close to throwing the paper into the bin when he remembered what Bond wanted from him: burning them. And he did exactly not follow this advice, not to mention the self-imposed security risk. He set the paper down at the thin layer of white letters and envelopes that started to pile on his commode. Although most of the interior was new or at least gave the impression to be relatively untouched, the low furniture completely covered in dark walnut was his beloved one. A gift from his parents, part of the upkeep back then when he had moved for the first time in his life.

He dismissed the thought and kept packing his bag, shoving his glasses, the smartphone, a tap-proof phone and some cables into the front pocket. His laptop followed instantly, drawing his shoulder down by almost an inch. As if he was carrying a heavy little baby with him, not quite a newborn, but the love of his life since the very first day. Q shook his head once again, causing one lock to move right in front of his right eye. He sighed. Tanner would ask questions as soon as he entered the floor, not to mention Eve who seemed like Bond’s extended right hand to him at the moment.  
‘Great.’

Fast forward, he only remembered both of them acting strange. It was the sixth of December, nobody got pestered with the pre-Christmas rites and traditions of mainland Europe so far and he was still Q. Nice to know, at least. He was thinking about cherry blossoms in the snow, the serious layer of his thoughts shut down already, when he approached the front door of the building. Salt was already piling up on the stairs. He did not notice anything strange while searching for his keys, opening the door, walking through the frame and letting it fall shut. It was in the elevator that he detected something strange. A manilla envelope sized DIN B6 stuck the right pocket of his coat.

For the first time he a saw a date stamp on one of James’ letters: Salerno, 06.12.  
That was today, and there was still no address on the front of it. The postage was paid, the envelope had some barcode, nothing more. No ‘priority’, no ‘urgente’, only a letter that was mailed in southern Italy today and could not wait to arrive at his porch.

He searched for an explanation, yet a postcard was still the only thing Q held in his hands except this hideous envelope. The quartermaster was slightly disappointed when no voice was there to announce the opening of the doors. Leaving the elevator quickly, he processed the keys once again and clutched to the postcard. A picture of the Tyrrhenian Sea, undoubtedly taken in summer. No message, just some rocks and a beach, and a boat with a big fishhook shaped like a J.


	7. December 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ‘gift’ of Bond was really strange, at least more than these presents usually were.

**December 7**

Sunrays beamed through the faint curtain. Q was already awake, reading the newspaper on his modified tablet. His branch in MI6 went through a revamp – once again – making him useless for the technicians that moved the tables, added some additional cables, reinstalled the vent and whatever else had to do. He was glad to be able to take another day, or at least half a day, off work to examine his newest case. The scent of a freshly brewed cup of tea reached his nose just as he was to leave the bed and get dressed. He remained sat, looking right through the window. London was a beautiful city, as far as he had seen in the short timeframe that Q had neither spent at the MI6 nor in his flat, being exhausted or already asleep. Yet it was still not his home.

Weighing the gun with his hands he tried to detect how much force the weapon imposed on its user. The metal casing alone was not too heavy, its interior on the other hand had a suspiciously high density. Some mechanism seemed to detect something in the surroundings, although Q had no idea how, or what, it searched for. He had already run some tests on the gun and the microchip in his very private lab, still he hadn’t yielded one safe assumption, let alone a result he could further work with. This ‘gift’ of Bond was really strange, at least more than these presents usually were.

'Do you know what I think? This was always intended for you.  
Don’t worry too much, please.  
J'

A warning. Smart blood, his project. It dawned on him. C was dead, so was Spectre. Every major member of it was confirmed dead by the MI6 through one of its agents.  
“Now who is the copycat?” Q thought loud to himself.  
An either very clever or deadly gullible free rider given the fact that Bond observed him twenty-four seven through more than one pair of eyes, he assumed. Nobody appeared in his inner vision.

Q was close to throwing the gun into a box along with the chip and storing in a dark corner of his lab when he detected something strange. He had taken the envelope from the doormat, opened the flap and picked out the letter. Where was the blank white envelope?  
The quartermaster searched a good fifteen minutes for the piece of folded paper until he gave up. Either it had miraculously disappeared or something was really wrong with himself. At least he would know soon enough when he would meet Eve for the first time on this day.  
“Fair enough, don’t you think so?”


	8. December 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q knew how to sit to look like the most boring person in the whole world.

**December 8**

Q was at work, actually working for the MI6. It was strange that he had to justify himself whenever he passed a mirror, being ready to take a look behind his own facade. For the first time since the aftermath of Skyfall he had spent more time on private tinkering and thinking than on what his official job description required him to do. The quartermaster felt even worse for his colleagues who had much more work to shoulder due to his absence. He was far behind on anything M had ordered him to take a look at but he knew that his focus was needed elsewhere. Somewhere deep inside he knew that his behaviour would save the future, it was just unclear for whom.

Spying on people never seemed strange to him, Q always did it unconsciously anyway. He achieved a proper intuition for troublemakers early in his life and made use of this ability ever since. Ordinary people that had an aura of ‘I will cause problems as soon as I get around the corner of this street’ where easy to avoid, and he was right more often than he wanted to be. He knew where to stand in the underground, what people to better not look at and how to sit to look like the most boring person in the whole world. This was advanced camouflage, more successful than every make-up ever invented.

Q was on his way home, it had been an average day at work, and the underground was pretty packed. Nothing unusual for a Tuesday evening in the pre-Christmas season. All seats were taken so he grabbed one support strap and continued to unobtrusively observe the people around him. A father next to his seated son absorbed in a discussion. Some students in their early twenties talking about plans for the upcoming weekend. Q looked to the other side where a family of three was preoccupied trying not to loose each other in the crowd. The doors made a loud beeping sound before starting to close.

He only wanted to take a look at the passengers behind him by looking at their reflections in the window when he caught sight of a man on the opposite platform. Dressed in a woollen dark grey coat the man had his back to the tracks and was looking absently in Q’s direction.  
‘No, this can’t be … please, let it be only my imagination.’  
A woman walked towards the man, clearly calling for him. He did not turn his head but continued to stare into the far distance, telling something. She turned her head to search for the distraction, but the train was already in motion, removing them from his range of vision. Q froze, still starring through the patchy glass into the now dark shaft of the underground.

His heart raced and pounded in his chest, ready to shatter with every additional step.  
Q opened the letter as soon as the door fell shut behind his back.  
He hastily unfolded the paper, almost causing it to be ripped apart by his trembling hands.

‘What do you know about Nathaniel Winson?’

“He died in a car crash. The front seat was completely demolished leaving him no chance to survive. His corpse had been cremated and now remains on the main cemetery of …”

Q’s hoarse voice broke.


	9. December 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond certainly did not want to enrage the man he entrusted his life to.

**December 9**

He arrived at Q-branch early. His quartermaster was nowhere to see, thus he entered the office straightaway. The huge glass cabin was empty as well, so was the workspace. A few black monitors, a keyboard, an abandoned packet of pens. Not explosive, sadly, but Bond wasn’t picky. He grabbed one of them and started the search for a blank piece of paper when he noticed the two drawers being ajar. This made him wary enough to use the pen as an extensive to open them rather than just grabbing the handle.

The two metal boxes were empty. It took Bond a second glance to notice the pocket book hidden in the shadow of the upper drawer. The agent’s hackles started to raise. Something was wrong. He knew Q had left the building in the evening the day before where nothing had happened so far. Then he had gotten on the underground and … shit. Bond had definitely asked too much.  
He bit on his tongue and continued the search which resulted in him reaching for the little piece. Covered in pure mint paper, dotted pages appeared, most of them empty.

He browsed through the thin layers of paper until a small piece slid out between them. Precise lines were drawn on it in a nice manner. Some kind of writing, he concluded.  
‘How does a titch like him happen to know shorthand, let alone how to use it?’  
Bond was genuinely surprised. He tried to read the few lines, albeit he wasn’t able to pick out one single letter. It didn’t seem to be English or any other language he had decent knowledge off, the patterns of stroke repetition were vastly different - if they were present at all. Probably some notes on an engineering process or his quartermaster’s most private thoughts. Whatever.

The desperate struggle to find loose paper led to him leaving the entire branch relatively quickly upon putting the notes back and closing the drawers. He thought about the CCTV-footage for a moment but postponed this issue. M was absent so he could ask Eve about … he dismissed the thought. Moneypenny was way too young to know about some obscure writing systems that were only taught to journalists anymore. He did not know why he was so interested in Q’s notes, probably because he somehow wanted to find answers.

Surveying Q wasn’t the problem since there were too many people he could call in a favour from. It was the reason he had to give them to not raise any questions that yielded complications. The quartermaster of the MI6 usually had his eyes on the agents, not the other way round, he agreed. Ensuring trust by monitoring someone was not a common way to gain reliance and could easily lead to shooting himself in the foot.  
Bond certainly did not want to enrage the man he entrusted his life to.

‘I’m sorry.  
James’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to change the POV for this chapter so that you can gain more insight on Bond's actions and motives. Q still receives these letters every day, no worries.  
> Sorry for the belated chapters, I'm quite bad at writing chapters ahead (as you should have noticed until now).


	10. December 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His time was over, he had to go.

**December 10**

Q could hardly come to sleep, turning around in his sheets over and over again. He tried to be enraged that Bond had had invaded his privacy so much that he was close to cutting the ties with an agent for the first time in his career but he couldn’t. This time he was protecting Bond while the older man remained surveying him. For what, he asked himself a dozen times over the last nine consecutive days. It was not the copycat that attracted 007’s attention for sure. No, the agent had gained interest in himself. He definitely tried to get to know his quartermaster better, digging up hidden links and ties that Q rather had seen entirely forgotten.

At some point he felt like he should be mortified that Bond could observe him so easily even within the flat but Double-o-seven was a special agent par excellence. He knew a few people off the top of his head that would accommodate Bond in any way he wanted. With our without threads, sex, drugs or whatever else involved. Q cringed slightly at the thought but then again he was not the only person that was of importance for Mr James Bond. In fact, he never knew well enough if the agent was interested in having him as a friend at all.

He felt numb when the sunlight reached his closed eyelids, leaving traces of warmth on his skin. Q strained his ears to find nobody else in the room. He missed being accompanied although he always had a difficult time accommodating to another sentiment being in his reach. It was a vicious circle he had entered long ago, the negative feedback constraining him into this dismissive behaviour constantly and subconsciously being enforced.

The bags under his eyes could hardly be unseen. Q, however, did not care about this minor flaw in his appearance as he arrived at work. The branch seemed to be quite busy already, minions jogging around and collecting instructions. Maybe he was late enough for Eve to notice, although he did not care about it anymore. He fulfilled his work requirements, overworked less than in the past and only felt a little less well than usually. The last one was an understatement for sure.

Hours passed by slowly. Painfully slow and still too fast for the quartermaster. He hated to think of the gruesome fact that he had no escape anymore. Overworking was not an option, his tinkering mind devoid of ideas. Being at home – he sensed the difficulty to use that word for his current residence more than ever – it led only to him staring into the barrel of a gun, hidden by a layer of bulletproof metal.

His time was over, he had to go. Q bid goodbye to his colleagues immediately upon leaving the office. Eyes were directed at him as he turned his back and marched out.

The cloudless morning had turned into an overcast evening, London being fog-shrouded even into the narrowest alley. He glanced at his hands where the latest letter was, reading the few words over and over again, finally realising what they told him.  
“Too late”, he whispered.

It had already drawn him into the deadly loneliness he abhorred so much.


End file.
